


Smoke and Mirrors

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arson, M/M, case files, mention of a case of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The every day story of the British Government and his bit of rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дым и зеркала](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643870) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



SMOKE AND MIRRORS

SEPTEMBER 2009

Lestrade woke with a small start and discovered that, rather than Mycroft lying beside him, pretending to be asleep, as he had for the previous two nights, the space beside him was empty. He pulled on a pair of boxers, made a brief detour to the bathroom, then went in search of Mycroft because things couldn't be allowed to go on this way.

So much for his glib assurance that they could forget what had happened...

The French doors out onto the garden were open to let in the night air, cool after the humidity of the day. Mycroft was sitting on the step, his back propped against the door jamb, smoking. The security lights which shone into the garden had been lowered and dimmed some months ago but there was still enough light to see the bleak unhappiness on his unguarded face.

While on the surface everything between them was fine, they were too careful around one another. While Mycroft never displayed the nervy effervescence of Sherlock, keeping his own nerves well-hidden, he seemed subdued, uncertain even and an uncertain Mycroft seemed against the laws of nature. Worse, Lestrade thought it must be his fault.

He hovered for another few seconds, worrying that he might not be welcome, when Mycroft turned his head, saw him and gave one of those slow, genuine smiles which melted Lestrade every time he saw one.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Mycroft murmured. 

Lestrade shook his head as he padded over and sank down beside him. "I needed to pee. I thought you'd got rid of those cigarettes," he added mildly.

"I bought some more," Mycroft admitted, avoiding Lestrade's gaze. 

"This is your third bad night in a row. Is it work?"

Mycroft studied the glowing tip of the cigarette as he shook his head. "All's well. Touch wood," he added, because even intelligent men had their superstitions.

Lestrade relieved him of the cigarette, drawing deeply on it before slowly exhaling. "Did I stir up some ugly memories for you the other day?"

"Briefly." Mycroft took back the cigarette, inhaled, then ground it into extinction on the concrete. "It's not that. It belatedly occurred to me that any relationship must be based on trust. And I've made it impossible for you to trust me again." He stared out across the broken and cracked concrete of the garden, the hem of his silk dressing gown stirring in the light breeze.

Lestrade slipped an arm around him. "You really are a dick," he said lovingly. "You'd best light another, this is likely to be a two cigarette problem. Of course I trust you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here." As he intended, that gained Mycroft's full attention, all thoughts of smoking forgotten. 

"You value honesty highly."

"I learned to the hard way. With the benefit of hindsight, I was as much to blame for the break-up of the marriage as Julia. I wasn't sexually unfaithful but I might just as well have been. I used to lie about needing to stay at work to avoid the boredom of home. I cut her out of my life. No wonder she looked elsewhere. She'd lie about her affairs and I'd pretend to believe her until she'd shove it in my face. Then we'd both lie and say we wanted to make the marriage work, when the truth was we were just afraid of being alone again. Though if there's anything lonelier than sharing a bed when neither of you want to be there, I don't want to experience it. I promised myself I would never live like that again." Lestrade refocused to find Mycroft watching him intently. "And I won't," he added, his face shadowed by remembered misery.

Mycroft took Lestrade's hand in his own and brushed his mouth over the knuckles. "You shouldn't. You deserve better. I just hope I'm capable of providing that."

Lestrade nudged him with his shoulder. "You already do. Truth," he added, when he found himself pinned by an intense, searching gaze. "You'll need a crowbar to prise me away from you - unless you just kick me out of bed again," he added wickedly.

"That was an accident while we were fucking and you know it!" Mycroft belatedly realised that he had been conned and grimaced. "Why do I fall for those sad brown eyes time after time," he muttered, chagrined.

Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin, Mycroft a relaxed weight against him by now. "I don't know, but it's fun to watch. While we're on the subject of honesty, it's time I came clean. I can tell when you're lying about being safe when you're off to an obviously dodgy destination."

"You can?" said Mycroft with consternation.

"After twenty odd years on the force I'm reasonably good at spotting when people aren't telling the truth. Of course, the real trick is discovering what they're lying about, because it isn't always the obvious."

Mycroft shifted round, the better to study Lestrade. "You can really tell when I'm lying?" He sounded intrigued.

"If it's a direct lie, yeah. I suspect there's been a bit of fudging from you on occasion, mind," added Lestrade, giving him an affectionate one-armed hug.

"I may have fudged on occasion," Mycroft allowed, before he surrendered. "Guilty as charged. This is a worrying development, I have to lie every day"

"And I'm sure you're convincing - at work. I'm obviously having a terrible effect on you," said Lestrade happily.

"No doubt about it," agreed Mycroft, without any trace of concern.

"I shouldn't have confessed. Now I don't have any advantage," said Lestrade, stroking the silken small of Mycroft's back in an absent-minded kind of way.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." All Mycroft's attention was focussed on Lestrade - in another man his expression might have been described as fatuous.

Lestrade kissed Mycroft's stubble-roughened jaw line. "You've had a rotten few days. But all this self-doubt was just because your confidence has taken a beating. You spend your working life controlling events and people - you've even tried bringing order to the chaos that is Sherlock - but relationships are messy and complicated and if they're going to work they rely on two people being willing to compromise. Though what do I know," he added with a wry grimace.

"You've more experience of relationships than me. Well, you'd be hard-pressed to have less," added Mycroft wryly. His arm around Lestrade by this time, his thumb teased the short hair at the back of his neck.

"So what have you and Sherlock had all these years then?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Armed warfare."

"Bollocks. You might have been watching over him, but in his own way he keeps a beady eye on you. He was obviously worried about you on the island, till you caught up on your sleep. Of course, he also deletes any information he doesn't like, which is a useful trick. Can you do it?"

"Unfortunately not." Mycroft gave Lestrade a faintly accusing look. "So you're admitting that the man I'm relying on to steer me through this relationship - "

" - cocked up his last one. I'm afraid so," said Lestrade cheerfully.

"Wonderful. Still, you're a lot easier to have a relationship with than Sherlock is," Mycroft offered, straight-faced.

Lestrade gave him the finger and stretched out his legs with a satisfied sigh, reminded that it was the middle of the night when a wave of fatigue swept over him. "I know I'll probably jinx everything saying this but living with you... I feel free to be me, warts and all."

"That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft checked.

"It's bloody brilliant. And it's what I expect from you, too," Lestrade added pointedly. "If you've had a crappy day it's okay to be grumpy."

"You could regret that," warned Mycroft.

"True. But better that than you on your best behaviour. I reckon we should forget checking out the house again tomorrow and spend the morning in bed instead."

Mycroft didn't even pretend to think about it. "If you insist. Or even if you don't. You look tired," he realised belatedly.

"That's because it's the middle of the night. I'll lock up while you have the bathroom."

By the time Lestrade slid into bed he wasn't wholly amazed to find Mycroft fast asleep.

Mycroft mumbled something incoherent, eased closer and tucked a possessive arm over him without ever really waking up.

And even though it was far too humid for such proximity to be comfortable, Lestrade remained where he was, wondering smugly if there was anyone else privileged to know about the secret snuggling.

 

Mycroft wandered into the sitting room, ginger stubble glinting in the sunshine, with his silk dressing gown insecurely fastened and his just washed hair already beginning to fluff out.

"I've slept the morning away," he said ruefully.

Lestrade eyed the relaxed figure with satisfaction. "And looking much better for it. Or you will when you wake up. Tea?"

"Please." Mycroft yawned and propped himself against the work-top as he watched Lestrade busy with kettle and teapot.

Lestrade turned to give what he had intended to be a quick peck on the mouth. The kiss turned into something slow and deep, with a lot of tongue.

"Oh, you _are_ awake," noted Lestrade with approval, some time later. "And so accessible."

"Unlike the chastity belt you're wearing," complained Mycroft, who was having difficulty with the fastening to Lestrade's ancient 501s. A button pinged onto the floor.

"He's eager," joked Lestrade, peering down at his erection.

"Yes, your super cock rips off buttons. If I'm ever going to unpeel you from the wretched things you'll need to come to bed." 

"Silver tongue. I didn't say no, did I," Lestrade added hastily.

 

"Gregory," said Mycroft, a considerable time later.

Still sprawled on his stomach, Lestrade gave an irritable twitch, his backside slightly reddened by stubble burn. That voluptuous wriggle was Mycroft's undoing. One flat-palmed hand on either side of Lestrade's flanks, he planted a kiss on each cheek, before nipping him gently in the centre of his left buttock.

Lestrade muttered something uncomplimentary about Mycroft parentage, before easing on to his back. "It was a mistake to let you sleep."

"I'm ravenous," Mycroft said on a note of discovery, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Lestrade sighed and got to his feet. "I'll shower first."

"Not much point, is there."

"Oh. It's going to be one of those days, is it." Lestrade shrugged into the crimson dressing gown Mycroft had bought him. "Lots of protein then."

oOo

 

On Sunday they went back to Queen Anne's Gate to decide what work needed to be done to the house before they could move in - Mycroft's security and the use of outside contractors deemed to be incompatible by Anthea.

"Where's the panic room again?" asked Lestrade, at the foot of the stairs in the entrance hall.

"Between the cloakroom and lift. Accessed via the cloakroom."

"That'll make having a pee interesting."

"The bad news is that Anthea is determined we should have at least one security drill," said Mycroft.

"Oh, bad luck."

"The key word is 'we'."

"Why me?" said Lestrade indignantly, as they headed up to the second floor, which held the master bedroom.

"Gregory, you can't seriously imagine that in the event of a real threat I would leave you outside?" Mycroft failed to inject the necessary lightness into his voice, which was why Lestrade didn't waste his breath arguing.

"No, you've got the word 'idiot' running through you. Relax, I'll take the practice seriously, although this house must be more secure than the Tower of London. Are you in more danger than usual?" Lestrade added sharply, one thought leading to another.

"Not at all. I promise," added Mycroft steadily, for once telling the unvarnished truth.

Lestrade's nod acknowledged his recognition of the fact. "Well, that's good. I know you won't take this the wrong way, but why would it matter so much if you were killed? Isn't there another secret squirrel waiting in the wings, ready to take over?"

"Yes and no. This job requires a combination of skills that are more difficult to find - a facility for a variety of foreign languages, patience, intelligence, and the ability to retain information. Hired killers, like James Bond, are two a penny."

Lestrade ignored the red herring floated in front of him. "Is an eidetic memory a requirement?"

"Given the volume and complexity of the information that has to be digested, I can't imagine how anyone could do this job without one," said Mycroft frankly. "But in the world of security it's something of a two-edged sword - for obvious reasons. The fear isn't that I would be killed, but that I would be captured. This day and age no one person holds vital codes or passwords but there are many kinds of secrets. Not all of them British. I know where too many bodies are buried. I should do, I dug the graves for some of them. Metaphorically speaking, of course."

Lestrade's already forced smile congealed. "How many people know you have an eidetic memory?"

One glance at Lestrade's grim expression warned Mycroft not to make a joke of it. "Edith Carson. Anthea, Graham, David. And Sherlock, of course."

"Did you ever tell any of your previous lovers - Yves?"

"Good God, no."

"College professors? Teachers? Relatives?"

"At that age, instead of being grateful for my memory, I was ashamed of it. As if I was somehow cheating. I went to some pains to disguise it. My father and uncle are dead. I'm not sure if Mummy noticed or not. I'm sorry the panic room has worried you," added Mycroft, smoothly changing the subject from that of his family. "For my own part, I loathe the idea of one. However, as it exists, it would be prudent to know how to use it in the event of an emergency."

"Mycroft, it really is fine," said Lestrade catching hold of his wrist. He resisted the impulse to fidget under an unblinking blue stare.

"Is it?" said Mycroft grimly. "Yet again you're the one having to make all the compromises."

"You're worth it. And now you'll be even more insufferable than usual," Lestrade added, kissing a temporarily silenced Mycroft. "Most of the time I feel too lucky to think about compromise," he added, just to see that flustered, self-conscious pleasure again.

"Just think, if you hadn't been crossing Hammersmith Bridge at that exact moment we might never have met," mused Mycroft.

"Is this where I supposed to feel grateful for Sherlock?" enquired Lestrade, straight-faced.

"Let's not go overboard," Mycroft begged, before he grimaced. "Though I have to admit, I am in this instance. But if you ever tell him that I'll - " He paused, unable to think of a sufficiently dire threat, which wasn't at all in character.

"You could always set Balasha onto me."

"How - ? She told you her name?"

"We bonded. Despite the fact she can read my mind. What?" Lestrade added with suspicion.

"I was about to say something extremely tactless," Mycroft confessed.

"What stopped you?"

"The thought of no sex in the foreseeable future."

"That bad, huh?"

"My lips are sealed."

"Yeah?" Lestrade swiftly set about proving the lie to that as he nudged Mycroft back against the full length mirror in the dressing room. "One of these days I'm going to have you up against this," he murmured, when they eventually drew apart.

"Why here in particular?" asked Mycroft, as he paused to rearrange his disordered clothing.

"I want to see your face when I fuck you."

"But you always close your eyes when you come."

"I know. I'm working on it." 

"Anything I can do to help," said Mycroft, just before he sank to his knees and unfastened the buttons of Lestrade's jeans.

 

"Your knee _is_ better," said Lestrade, when they finally got back to their inspection of the house.

"It must be. I never even thought about it," Mycroft admitted. "Now concentrate, so we can get this review of the house over with. Unless you want to live with that wallpaper?"

"Vaguely reminiscent of one of the layers in my flat," said Lestrade, looking pained. "Should I take notes?"

Mycroft gave him a pitying look.

"What was I thinking. Right, family room and kitchen next."

 

"Anthea tells me we should be able to move in Friday week," Mycroft said, as they eventually made their way back to the ground floor. 

"So fast? There's far more to be done than I realised."

"That because the bones of the house overcame the horrible decor. Speed is easy to achieve if you pay treble time and a large bonus if they hit the completion date. Which I've no doubt they will with Len breathing down their necks."

"Five pounds says he helps out," grinned Lestrade.

"Of course he will. Um, he's a bit worried that you'll think he's interfering if he..."

"I'll have a word. Subtle like."

Mycroft gave a theatrical groan, before he sobered. "While we've been living together I couldn't help noticing how few possessions you have. Is it because you don't like clutter?"

"I suppose I don't, now you mention it. There never seemed any point getting attached to stuff. At the Care Home you could be moved around, or shuffled off to a foster home without much warning. Everything you owned had to fit into a black plastic sack. I learned not to get too fond of anything. Julia was a pack rat but I've never been interested in nick-nacks."

"That's a weight off my mind."

"I've been thinking about the flat," Lestrade announced, in an abrupt change of subject.

Mycroft gave him an intent look. "You don't want to sell it?"

"It's not that. But it could be months before any sale is completed and we need more furniture for this place right now. Not to mention soft furnishings."

Mycroft failed to control his look of horror.

"I know but the quicker we start, the quicker it's over. I've stopped obsessing about who pays. Besides, I've bought us a new door knocker," Lestrade said with glee. "Well, it's being made. You know what it is, don't you," he recognised with resignation.

"I'm afraid so. My dragon went missing for several hours. Len and subterfuge are a poor mix. He's even more hopeless at lying than you are."

"Only you could regard that as a bad habit," said Lestrade fondly.

 

OCTOBER 2009

 

They were able to enjoy breakfast together on Thursday morning, thanks to Lestrade being due in court, while Mycroft had a meeting in Whitehall which didn't start until nine thirty. In between sips of tea he was reading his post.

"It seems my stupidity is the gift which keeps on giving," Mycroft said into the silence.

Lestrade looked up from the police file he was re-reading. "Eh?"

Mycroft held out an expensive looking sheet of cream vellum. "Here, you'd best read this for yourself."

Lestrade took it from him without enthusiasm. His frown deepened. "Given that I rarely get my bank account to balance, why did you give me this? Just tell me - preferably in words of one syllable."

"It seems that the Inland Revenue may come knocking on your door, wondering how you could afford half this house."

Lestrade took a fortifying mouthful of croissant. "With any luck they'll send me to an open prison. Ford's nice. Like a Butlin's holiday camp with prison guards."

"Gregory, this is serious. I was wondering - hoping - you would allow my solicitors to handle the entire matter."

Lestrade tried and failed to firm his twitching mouth. 

"What?" sighed Mycroft with resignation. "Have at me."

"It's just such a relief to discover there are things which even you don't get right. You know where all my papers are, give them anything they need. After all, if I was locked up in Ford I'd see even less of you. Damn, it can't be that time already. I must leave." Lestrade gulped down the last of his tea.

"Where is the trial being conducted?"

"The Bailey."

"Well, you can't go looking like that. Turn around and I'll retie the knot of string you're wearing around your neck."

"Don't make it too tight," instructed Lestrade, grumbling on principle. "Hey, tonight will be our last night in this flat." The hands brushing his throat stilled.

"Will you miss it?"

"When I bought this place I was about as unhappy as I've ever been. Now..."

"Don't turn round yet."

"Bugger that." Lestrade turned and slid his hands under Mycroft's jacket to cup his backside. "Now I'm about as happy as it's possible to be. Or I will be when you stop fiddling with my bloody tie."

"Would you like a lift to the Old Bailey?"

"It's hardly convenient for Whitehall."

Mycroft shrugged. "I'll abuse my power and use the opticon. Besides, it will give me time to do something about that tie."

 

"Len, come in," said Lestrade that evening. "Just don't look at the far wall until I've finished taking down the scene of crime photos. Mycroft was about to make tea."

Mycroft obediently got to his feet. "Evening, Len."

The photographs safely stashed in one of the cardboard boxes holding the papers concerning the body parts cases, Lestrade started to tape down each box. "You can turn round now, Len. You'll take these boxes to the house yourself?"

"I'll leave them in your new office. Though the whiteboards won't be here for another couple of weeks. I got a locksmith in. Your office now has a lock, so you needn't worry about anyone going in who shouldn't."

"Annie," mouthed Mycroft, unseen by Len.

"I bought round some rock buns," said Len, tossing the bag to Mycroft. "Annie's been baking like a mad woman for when you move in. Speaking of which..." Politely but firmly he made it clear to Lestrade that he expected to do the rest of their packing for the move the following day. "...unless you don't trust me."

"I don't want to take advantage," said Lestrade, tossing the roll of sticky tape onto the table.

"Fat chance! I'll be glad of a bit more work."

Mycroft returned with the tea; he had been living with Lestrade for long enough not to bother with plates for the rock buns. 

"Thanks, Mycroft," said Len, taking his mug. "I'll take this into the bedroom and start packing your clothes."

"What's that tissue paper for?" murmured Lestrade, as he sat beside Mycroft and helped himself to a rock bun.

"To wrap your clothes in."

"Blimey. They won't know what's hit them." 

"You don't mind if Len...?"

"Leaves me looking less like an unmade bed? No. I can't imagine being able to walk to work," added Lestrade dreamily. "While I've got you here, it occurred to me that neither of us has had a proper holiday since those few days after Christmas. Which reminds me. I've booked three weeks off from the 23rd December."

"Excellent. Where would you like to go?"

"Surprise me."

"That's very trusting of you."

"I know, so don't make me regret it. Is there any chance you could take some time off now? I could do with a break and I'm damn sure you could."

"I should be able to manage something."

"How about Iceland? Or Denmark? Holland?"

Mycroft grimaced. "What are your thoughts about Queen Anne's Gate?"

"I'll take it. Two weeks."

"Three days."

"Ten."

"Four."

"Seven."

"Five."

"Done," said Lestrade, knowing he had been. "Not including weekends."

"Reneging on the deal already? Oh, God. You're not going to spit on your palm, are you? Very well, one weekend. But you have to tell Anthea she has to reorganise my packed diary. I'd suggest you stock up on some very expensive chocolate."

"She doesn't scare me," scoffed Lestrade. 

Mycroft snorted.

"Well, not much."

oOo

 

On the day of their move Mycroft collected Lestrade from New Scotland Yard and drove with him to Queen Anne's Gate. The Indian Summer they had been enjoying had broken with a vengeance, the edge to the wind reminding everyone that winter was closing in.

"You don't need to check the place out?" Lestrade said to David.

"No need."

"Oh, God, just how much security is there?" Lestrade groaned.

"You'll be happier not knowing," Mycroft soothed with an untrustworthy smile.

"If I suffer from performance anxiety I'm blaming David," warned Lestrade, as they left the car.

"Not that secure," David told him with a grin, before he drove away, leaving them on the pavement outside the house.

"We're moving in together," said Lestrade.

"The note of discovery in your voice is a tad worrying."

"No, I meant...last time just sort of happened. This time it's planned."

"Yes," said Mycroft with satisfaction. "Shall we go inside?"

"Oh, yeah."

There was a slight hitch when they realised that neither of them had a key.

Because Mycroft refused point-blank to become the laughing stock of his security team, they had to walk round to Len and Annie's to borrow one of theirs.

 

 

All but the most personal elements of the move had been attended to for them and the house looked as settled as if they had been living there for weeks. While Lestrade was stocking the bedside cabinets with condoms and lubricant, Mycroft pensively eyed the bed in which they had enjoyed some highly pleasurable hours.

"I'm never going to get you into my bed," he recognised with a sorrow that was only partially assumed.

"What?" Seeming to have forgotten he was the proud possessor of a dressing room, Lestrade had already stripped down to his boxers. He paused, sock in hand.

"You bought this bed before we met. Not only am I the only person to share it with you, but it's extremely comfortable, so I can't justify replacing it with one I've purchased." Mycroft removed his shoes, then his socks because he always felt ludicrous left wearing them without trousers.

"Your thought precesses are a work of art." Lestrade padded round the bed and began to pat the pockets of Mycroft's suit.

"What are you doing? Not that it's necessarily unpleasant."

"Checking you for small change."

"I don't have any."

"Then it'll have to be a note." Lestrade held out his hand expectantly and tucked into the waistband of his boxers the note that a bemused looking Mycroft gave him. "Now it's your bed too. And you can have me on it any time that takes your fancy."

Overly conscious of the beat of his pulse, Mycroft fidgeted to ease the pressure on his constricted sex and recognised that his own need was being reflected back at him. He watched the more rapid than usual rise and fall of Gregory's chest, saw his tongue flick out and never knew which of them moved first.

Mycroft clamped his hands on either side of Lestrade's face, and his shoulders hunched, fed from him, their kisses slow, deep and wet. He was distantly aware that Gregory was fumbling with his clothing to free his cock.

"Fuck me," commanded Lestrade, his voice roughened by urgency. He twisted and just managed to grab the lubricant and a condom, as his boxers were pulled down, baring him to Mycroft's mouth.

Lestrade groaned and barely managed to turn his face from the bedding, which was in danger of suffocating him. He swore when he discovered he couldn't touch Mycroft, then groaned as Mycroft tongue wrecked havoc with his self-control.

They ended up rutting over the side of the bed with a fumbling urgency, Lestrade bent under Mycroft, increasingly incoherent grunts escaping him as he was taken over and over again, by a man still dressed in a three piece suit. Mycroft's hand wrenched climax from him before Mycroft pistoned his way to climax, his slackened mouth over Lestrade's neck as he came, gasping Lestrade's first name, buttons scraping Lestrade's back.

Sweat gleaming on his flushed face, Mycroft lacked the breath for speech as he remained poised over Lestrade on shaking arms, before he withdrew with care, dropped the condom on Lestrade's abandoned boxers and subsided beside him, beyond even coping with buttons and catches so that he could strip. He stared at what he could see of Lestrade's lust-dazed face with some satisfaction.

"I think the dragon on your watch chain's left a dent just above my arse," announced Lestrade, when his breathing was back under control.

"Only a little one," said Mycroft, finding the energy to nuzzle the spot. "It looks as if the wool of my suit might have left the equivalent of carpet burn." He didn't bother to apologise. Couldn't regret a thing.

Lestrade found strength he hadn't realised he possessed to reposition himself so that his forehead rested on Mycroft's midriff, just above the watch chain, while long fingers stroked the nape of his neck.

"I could murder some cheese on toast," Lestrade announced, just as Mycroft was dozing off.

He groaned. "You're a monster. Why do I have to make it?"

"You don't but it was worth a try to see if I could con you into it," said Lestrade philosophically. "We'll do it together then."

"And just when I was thinking you had no conscience." Mycroft stretched lethargically.

On his feet by this time, Lestrade paused to enjoy the debauched picture Mycroft made, before he bent to unfasten catches and buttons.

Half an hour later they were showered and snuggled up in bed against the chill of the evening. Propped against the pillows, they shared a pile of cheese on toast and a glass of Talisker single malt whisky. The rich crimson curtains hid the view of St. James's Park, where some of the leaves were just starting to change colour.

"One thing about bomb-proof windows, they cut out the noise. It's almost too quiet," mused Lestrade. 

"What's wrong?" asked Mycroft shrewdly.

Lestrade pulled a face, before dividing the last slice of cheese on toast and giving Mycroft the larger portion. "It's nothing. I know this is our home but I feel as if I'm on holiday."

"As of today, you are," Mycroft reminded him patiently. "And by good fortune - not to mention a lot of hard work by Anthea - so am I. What will we do with ourselves?" His tongue flicked out to recapture a string of melted cheese.

"No more sex in wool suits. I've got a rash," said Lestrade, aiming for pathos.

"And very fetching it is too," said Mycroft, undeceived. "Though the suit was a trifle hampering."

"Really? I can't say I noticed. This is a nice drop of stuff," Lestrade added, taking another small sip from the glass Mycroft handed him. "So how many markets have you got lined up for us to visit?"

"We need more furniture," Mycroft pointed out, as if that had been his only thought. "Plus I thought a boat trip down to Greenwich, with a stop at the Thames Barrier engine room."

"You are a prince among men."

"Something I don't hear nearly enough," Mycroft assured him. 

Glass and plate disposed off, Lestrade made himself comfortable against his human pillow, who was patiently waiting for him to get to the point.

"Can I ask you something?" Lestrade said eventually.

"Anything you like."

Lestrade kissed the inside of Mycroft's wrist. "You really are a sucker after sex, aren't you."

"Fortunately, only with you."

Lestrade turned around, his eyebrows raised. 

"Really, Gregory. Besotted, I might be but even I'm not likely to fall for that. What do you want to know?"

"Oh, loads of things but for now I was wondering how far your sphere of influence stretches."

"It's fairly elastic. Do you have a problem?

"Not just me. In the last year or so the murder rate in London has gone up by over twelve per cent, and the increase concerns deaths which are out of the norm - as if someone's playing a game, or setting a puzzle. If I didn't know better I would suspect Sherlock was behind them."

"He wouldn't," said Mycroft with a quiet certainty.

"I know that but there's something going on. I've made a point of having a casual chat with several of my opposite numbers in other MITs. I'm not the only one feeling the hair on the back of my neck prickle."

"No, you're not," said Mycroft, having come to a decision. "My discussions with security chiefs in Europe tell me the same thing. We've discovered nothing, beyond the fact that murders and theft of high-end goods, like works of arts and diamonds are up. So are cyber attacks, even allowing for terrorism and the usual suspects. A briefing note will be circulated to senior officers any day now. Interpol confirmed the highest rises were in France, Germany and Switzerland."

Lestrade sat up. "Don't say it's going to be worse than the arrival of the Russian Mafia a few years back. Those buggers make the Krays look like little old ladies at a tea party and..." His voice trailed away as he stared into the middle distance. "Russians. I never thought to check the ink..."

"Gregory?"

"Mmn, in a minute. I need to make a couple of calls. Don't worry, I'm not going in. Donovan can see to it." Lestrade was already out of bed.

"Make your calls here. You won't disturb me."

Mycroft fell asleep to the sound of Lestrade's voice.

 

"Talking to you can be quite useful," said Lestrade, as he headed into the kitchen, where Mycroft was preparing breakfast.

"Only quite?"

"Donovan called while I was in the shower. The partial tattoos on five of those body parts have been confirmed as Russian prison tats. Interpol are pursuing but we can already ID two of the victims, neither of whom were much credit to the human race. They specialized in sex-trafficking and drugs."

"Which activities are not only lucrative but require a large network. You believe someone is aiming to take over from the Russians?"

"If they are, we're talking about a large organisation and they must be bloody good. Not to mention even more ruthless. Porridge?" queried Lestrade, when he belatedly noticed what Mycroft was making.

"You force me to eat it." Mycroft served two bowls and added a liberal handful of fresh pineapple chunks to each one.

"Not when we're on holiday. I was thinking bacon sarnies."

"Don't whine. You're the one who told Annie we needed to eat healthily."

"And I'm a big enough man to admit that I was wrong. Add food shopping to the list," commanded Lestrade. "So, who do you think would be capable of out-doing the Russians?"

They discussed the possibilities for a couple of hours, both too engrossed in the puzzle to think of it as work.

 

oOo

 

After a blissful week on holiday, Lestrade still hadn't got used to the idea of having a dressing room of his own. He happily wandered into Mycroft's and made himself comfortable on the chaise longue, eyeing one of the full length mirrors in a thoughtful fashion.

Mycroft glanced up from sorting out his cuff-links. "Suffering from separation anxiety already?"

"Does this mean I don't get to watch you change any more? Because I'd like to remind you that works both ways."

"I was just thinking the dressing rooms could be a mixed blessing," Mycroft admitted.

"Handy in the mornings though," said Lestrade, as he pulled off his tee shirt, rolled it into a ball and lobbed it into Mycroft's laundry basket. "What time do you have to fly off tomorrow?"

"Seven thirty. So - "

" - we'll need to be up around five thirty."

"You don't."

"Humour me. I've got used to having you to myself in the last week. Which went too damn fast." Lestrade gave Mycroft a brooding look.

"Even I can't control time," Mycroft pointed out mildly.

"You're not trying hard enough. Let's go to bed early. I want to make sure you're properly scent-marked before I send you out into the wide world."

"Scent - ? Uh, Gregory."

"What's the problem?" It was the first time Lestrade had seen Mycroft look ill-at-ease at the prospect of sex. 

It took an untypically flustered Mycroft a while to explain and a giggling Lestrade even longer to sober enough to say he hadn't been referring to water sports.

 

The following morning Lestrade assumed it was David at their front door, given the unearthly hour, and was smiling as he ran downstairs to let him in.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd identified some of the body parts," said Sherlock, before the door was fully open. He looked disgustingly lively given that it was six fifteen in the morning.

Lestrade groaned, before his eyes narrowed. "I'd like to know how you heard about that."

"No, you wouldn't." For an unsettling moment Sherlock sounded disconcertingly like Mycroft. "Well, let me in. It's starting to rain."

Lestrade stepped to one side. "If you want to have a nose around the place, just say so," he said, which effectively ensured Sherlock stayed where he was.

"Don't torment the child," said Mycroft mildly from behind Lestrade. As if by magic the black car slid into view outside. 

"Sherlock, always a pleasure. I trust my security detail weren't too rough with you," Mycroft continued, his voice at its most silken.

Lestrade turned to him. "He tried to break in?"

"Of course he did. We knew it would only be a matter of time. I must go," added Mycroft.

"I know." Lestrade didn't attempt to look happy at the prospect.

Mycroft kicked the bottom of the front door, hard enough to slam it in Sherlock's face, before he kissed Lestrade, once lightly, then once not. 

"I'll work on controlling time," Mycroft promised.

"You just work on keeping safe," commanded Lestrade, kissing him once, hard on the mouth.

"I'm only flying to Germany," Mycroft said, breaking his iron-clad rule.

It earned him an approving pat.

"Shouldn't you two be over this stage by now?" said Sherlock, when the door re-opened and Mycroft brushed past him and into the car, briefcase in one hand and umbrella in the other.

"We're working on it," said Lestrade absently, as he watched Mycroft being driven away. "It is raining, isn't it," he added, noting the water dripping from the front of Sherlock's deflated curls.

"Just let me in," said Sherlock, already moving past him.

"Make yourself at home," said Lestrade ironically. For all his casual manner, he was nervous about Sherlock's reaction - not least to their exclusive address.

"Why are there bullet-proof windows?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Having given the library a cursory glance, he headed up the stairs.

"The previous owner was paranoid - and wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. Do you want any breakfast?" Lestrade headed into the kitchen without turning to see if Sherlock was following him and putting bread in the toaster.

"That depends. I'm not eating that slurry you force-fed me on the island."

"How you exaggerate."

"I'll have some tea," said Sherlock, in the tone of one conferring a great favour.

"Then you can make me one too, while I see to my toast and eggs. Don't light up in here."

"It's a bit late for you to pretend you don't smoke," said Sherlock, but he obediently put the packet of cigarettes back in his pocket.

Lestrade sighed. "If you must know, I'm in the middle of giving up again and it's not going as well as I'd like." He put more bread in the toaster before cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Same here," Sherlock admitted. "You heard what Mycroft did to my last would-be flatmate?"

"Sherlock, he had a record for armed robbery. What did you expect?"

"I thought his contacts might come in handy. I'm never going to find anyone at this rate," said Sherlock, helping himself to a slice of the toast Lestrade had just buttered.

"You don't need the money, do you?"

"Of course not. Though that isn't what I tell my would-be flat-mates. Well, I can hardly admit I have a bet with my cheating rat of a brother."

"Yeah? More fool you for not checking the terms of the bet. With Mycroft there's always small print. What are the terms?"

"That I won't find anyone suitable to share with me for three consecutive months."

"What are the stakes?"

"I tell Mycroft he was right if I lose. If I win, he stops interfering for three months."

"Ah, brotherly love."

"Piss off," said Sherlock, stealing another slice of toast and half the eggs Lestrade had scrambled. "Tell Mycroft I'd like my violin back, would you?" he added, through a mouthful of food.

"Sure," said Lestrade, ultra-casual, as if he didn't understand what good news that was. "Right, while I eat what you've left of my breakfast you've plenty of time to snoop. Only not our offices on the third floor. Mine's locked. And full of evidence. Clear?"

"I'm not an idiot. I read the rules of evidence. And very tedious they were too. This house suits you," Sherlock added abruptly.

"I think that has more to do with your brother," said Lestrade, but if he had hoped to disconcert Sherlock he was doomed to disappointment.

"Mycroft looked happy." Sherlock sounded accusing.

"I'll try to see it doesn't happen again," said Lestrade flippantly. "We haven't seen much of you recently. Is everything OK?"

"I've had another case. Well, two, actually." Sherlock failed to look modest.

"That's great. You solved them, of course."

"Was there any doubt? But now I'm bored. What have you got for me?"

"Nothing that would interest you - unless something's come in while I've been on leave."

"How did you identify the body parts?" asked Sherlock, eating an apple in an absent- minded fashion.

"Through what little was left of the ink. It was Russian prison. I can't remember which, off-hand."

"The ink! Of course. There's always something. But I should have thought of that," frowned Sherlock.

"Well, I didn't."

Sherlock's look spoke volumes but for a wonder he didn't say anything, insulting or otherwise.

"What?" asked Lestrade with resignation.

"Do you discuss your cases with Mycroft?" Sherlock asked abruptly, his chin going up while he avoided meeting Lestrade's gaze.

"Sometimes. In general terms. Usually when I'm pissed off. You're my consultant, not Mycroft," added Lestrade with deliberation.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. "I could manage some more eggs and toast if you're making any."

With some resignation, Lestrade got busy. What Sherlock needed was his own personal minder.

 

To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock was outside the house again when he left for work the next morning.

"Are you stalking me, or missing Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, as he headed for New Scotland Yard.

"You've got a case." Sherlock sounded accusing.

"Nothing that will interest you. The probable suicide of a businessman, Sir Jeffrey Patterson."

"Never heard of him. You've nothing else?"

"You can tag along if you like," Lestrade offered.

"Boring." But Sherlock continued to match his stride with Lestrade's.

"Do you want something?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course not."

"Then what are you still doing here?"

Sherlock ignored him to answer his phone. "I've got another case," he announced some time later, his pleased smile speaking volumes. 

"Good for you. Where?"

"What do you care?"

"As you said, Mycroft looks happy. I'd like to keep him that way. And don't waste your breath telling me he doesn't care what you do," anticipated Lestrade.

"It's in Cornwall. A case of poisoning."

"The local police called you in?" said Lestrade incredulously.

"No, the local vicar. He was up at Cambridge with Mycroft."

"Well before you hare off down there tell me the location and I'll give the locals a call. That way there's a faint hope they won't arrest you out of sheer irritation."

"I bet you wish you were coming with me," said Sherlock, as he hailed a taxi.

Lestrade waved him off, privately conceding that Sherlock was quite right.

That was just before he discovered that Sherlock had lifted his warrant card again. Still, at least the GPS meant Mycroft would be able to keep at eye on him, Lestrade consoled himself. 

oOo 

Lestrade and Mycroft met on the doorstep, shortly before midnight, both exhausted, cold and very hungry.

"How was your day?" Mycroft thought to ask as he slumped tiredly at the table while he finished his soup.

"Bloody awful. For the last couple of days I've had the top brass breathing down my neck over some businessman who topped himself." Lestrade mopped his soup bowl clean with a hunk of bread.

"Ah," said Mycroft pensively.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I thought it was odd I got that case. Was that a present from you?"

"In a manner of speaking. The Home Secretary was anxious to get someone reliable - read discreet. I was more concerned that the investigation should be thorough. Hence my mentioning your name to the Commissioner."

"Thanks," said Lestrade, without obvious gratitude. "We're still waiting for the forensic results, but everything points to suicide. Was he a friend of yours?"

"Not at all. But not without influence in the business - and political - world. His wife is convinced he was murdered."

"I can understand why she would want to believe that. As I said, nothing indicates it was anything but suicide. Though I think he was having it away with his PA. I'll take another look," said Lestrade with resignation.

"Normally, I would say trust your instincts. But... I would be grateful," said Mycroft.

"Is your spider sense tingling?"

"My what?"

"Your instincts."

"Yes," admitted Mycroft. "Though I have absolutely nothing with which to back them."

"I'll take another look. But only if I can warm my feet up on you when we get to bed."

"That's blackmail."

"And you're shocked because?"

"Fair point. Let's go to bed and get it over with then." Mycroft's long-suffering tone might have been more convincing but for the fact he had tucked his arm into the crook of Lestrade's as they went upstairs.

 

NOVEMBER

"It's open!" called Sherlock, before he wandered into view, wearing a ratty looking dressing-gown over a shirt and trousers.

"How many times have I told you not to leave your front door on the latch," said Lestrade, exasperated.

"Come in. I could use a cup of tea."

"No, thanks. I don't want to risk catching anything. This place is a disgrace," said Lestrade severely. "I'm surprised the neighbours haven't complained again."

"They have. You'd think they'd have something better to do with their time. What do you want? Is it a case?" Sherlock added, brightening.

"In a manner of speaking. Are you still interested in visiting an arson scene?"

Sherlock was almost quivering with excitement as he quickly exchanged an overcoat for the dressing-gown, hooking a scarf around his neck with a theatrical flourish.

"Well, don't just stand there." He hustled Lestrade out, only just remembering to lock the door behind them. "Send your car away. We'll take a taxi."

"Then you'll have to pay. I forgot to go to a cash point."

"Mycroft can," said Sherlock airily, as they emerged onto the street, where Lestrade dismissed the car waiting for him.

"Mycroft can't," he told Sherlock.

"Oh, very well." Sherlock resolved to get the money off Mycroft next time he saw him. It was the principle of the thing.

Lestrade pulled up the collar of his coat and wished he'd had had the forethought to wear a scarf. It was raw, grey day, the air damp and thick with pollution. Unsurprised, he watched Sherlock obtain a taxi within thirty seconds and belatedly wondered if Mycroft had anything to do with their ready availability, even when it was raining.

"First things first," he said, after he had given the driver the address and made himself comfortable.

"I'm clean," said Sherlock, his legs stretched out in front of him, hands punched deep in his coat pockets.

"And looking good on it," said Lestrade.

Sherlock gave him a side-on look of suspicion.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm secretly pining for love of you and am just making do with Mycroft. Get over yourself. You're not irresistible," Lestrade told him briskly.

"I wasn't think that. Just wondering what favour you were going to ask. You don't usually compliment me."

"I don't usually have cause to," Lestrade pointed out. "Now, about the arson scene. _Do not_ \- and I can't emphasise this enough - treat the Fire Officer the way you treat me or my team. Don't show off, don't patronise him and keep your theories to yourself. Then he might - and only might - agree to share his expertise with you. He's not as tolerant as me, so don't push your luck.

"When we get to the scene you'll suit up. No argument, no whining. You'll be glad of the protection. Fires are filthy things. Given that the firemen have only just declared the house safe to enter, you'll need to wear the steel-soled shoes they provide because the floor could still be hot enough to melt the soles of yours. Oh, and stick to walking on the aluminium plates."

"Wear a ridiculous outfit and look humble. Got it. Why are you being called out to a case of arson, let alone one this far outside your area?"

"The politically correct response would be that inter-departmental co-operation is in operation. In truth, it's connected to the body parts cases. The house is a literal stone's throw from the waste ground where several of the body parts turned up, along with those notes in crayon."

"'Who wants to play?' I remember. Obviously written by a highly intelligent, right-handed man. Any witnesses?"

"Unlikely. The houses are derelict and were bought up by speculators, only to find the regeneration around the Olympic Park didn't stretch that far. Most of the street is boarded up and the houses are in such a state that even squatters couldn't face 'em."

"What aren't you telling me?" asked Sherlock with suspicion.

"All in good time. The fire was started deliberately, but not by kids. Someone knew just where to place the accelerant. Records show the burnt-out property is owned by a property company run by a Mr Sebastian Maron - which I'm hoping is another anagram of our old friend Colin Moran. As yet we don't have any information on who, if anyone, was renting the place. The fireman found charred remains in what was left of an armchair in the living room. There's very little skeleton left even, just one untouched foot, still in its shoe. Quite and expensive shoe, apparently."

Sherlock pushed himself up on the seat. "Spontaneous combustion! I thought that was a myth!" 

"It is. While there was a bottle of whisky nearby, the Fire Officer is pretty sure it was staged. The best news is that in the basement are two large chest freezers, containing at least two frozen torsos. Probably more. We won't know until we can get in there. This house could be where they were butchered, perhaps even the killing ground. It was certainly the storage site. While the local SOCOs had made a start, I've called in ours - though between the fire and the water damage the likelihood of getting anything useful is small."

"Can't this taxi go any faster." Sherlock leant forward to have a word with the driver, then sat back when he thought the better of it.. Experience had taught him that complaining about a cabbie's skills resulted only in him being unceremoniously decanted some distance from his destination.

Lestrade eyed him with resignation. Sometimes he felt as if he was baby-sitting a violently shaken bottle of fizz whose cork was about to pop. 

To his relief, traffic was light and they arrived before Sherlock could ruin his good mood.

"Don't forget what I told you," he told Sherlock.

"Anyone would think I didn't know how to behave," said Sherlock, looking amused rather than offended.

His eyes sparkling, Lestrade gave a hoot of derision. "Ten quid says you piss off the Fire Officer."

"Done," said Sherlock promptly.

Lestrade wished he had thought of bribery before. It would have saved his team a lot of grief, not to mention himself. He decided it would be best not to mention the idea to Mycroft, he was far too likely to approve and Sherlock didn't need encouraging. 

The taxi stopped at the end of the derelict street, which was cordoned off with police tape. Beyond it was a confusion of fire engines, police and SOCO vehicles and a group of uniformed police constables suiting up ready to start searching the small front and back gardens.

The police constable at the second lot of police tape logged them on to the site.

"Has the doc certified death?" Lestrade asked him.

"Just been and gone, sir."

"Excellent. Have our SOCOs arrived?"

"About ten minutes ago, sir. Ours are liaising with them now. The guv'nor reckons it'll take longer than usual. Your lot have got a new Supervisor. A right little God Almighty," the constable added with feeling.

"Lovely," murmured Lestrade. "Like we haven't got enough of those."

"I'm standing right beside you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Only because I've got a grip on the back of your coat. And what makes you think I was talking about you?"

"Intuition. Do come on. We're missing all the fun."

"And we're likely to do so for a few minutes yet," said Lestrade, who was having his usual struggle to get in the scene of crime suit. "Morning, sergeant."

"Morning, guv. Oh, God. You've bought the freak." Donovan turned slightly to the man just behind her. "This is - "

"Anderson," the man said brusquely. He glanced at the hand Lestrade extended. "You don't seriously expect me to risk contamination?"

"Oh you and Sherlock will get on," said Lestrade.

"Who is this man?" Anderson added, when he noticed a fidgeting Sherlock.

"Don't ask," sighed Sally Donovan.

"Police consultant," said Lestrade.

"Well see he doesn't contaminate the scene," said Anderson, stalking off.

"Marriage on the rocks - "

"Sherlock," sighed Lestrade. "Time and place, remember? Now, shut up for five minutes, then I'll take you to meet the Fire Officer."

"I surprised you don't offer me a packet of sweets."

"Gob stoppers spring to mind. Stay with me - and keep quiet," Lestrade added, before he headed over to greet his opposite number with the proper degree of humility and conciliation. To his relief, Jack Smethers wasn't out to prove anything in the last months of his career. His only interest was in catching villains - and he wasn't fussy who helped the process along.

Formally offered the investigation, Lestrade kept a surreptitious eye on Sherlock, but he was changing into a suit without a murmur of complaint, so he went off with Smethers to be introduced to the Fire Officer. Once Smethers had left, and he had been brought up to date, Lestrade broached the subject of his consultant. A bucket load of flattery and the promise of an expensive bottle of malt - for which he'd charge Sherlock - oiled the wheels and Sherlock went off with the Fire Officer. To anyone who knew him it was obvious that Sherlock was virtually vibrating with excitement. 

While firemen checked the adjoining houses, concerned that sparks may have gone into adjoining roof spaces, Lestrade brought himself up to date on developments before sending his team off to complete various inquiries. Throughout, he managed to keep an eye on Sherlock, the Fire Officer's expression a good guide as to how things were going. Perhaps he should make it two bottles...

An urgent shout from Anderson sent Lestrade into the front of the house at a run.

Within minutes the house had been cleared of personnel after the discovery of a handgun in a sturdy, fire-resistant Deeds box, which had been stashed under what was left of the sofa.

Busy issuing instructions, it took Lestrade several moments to locate Sherlock, who was having no success in getting through the three burly constables who were restraining him.

"Thanks, guys," said Lestrade. "He's with me.

"Stop making a tit of yourself," he added, in a voice designed to carry no farther than the man he was steering back onto the road. "You'd best change out of that suit and back into your coat. I don't know about you, but I'm freezing," said Lestrade, swiftly putting on his overcoat again.

"Why has everyone left the house?" demanded Sherlock, pulling on his gloves. "I was just - "

"SOCO found a handgun. Regulations mean we clear the entire area and wait for an Authorised Firearms Officer to arrive. They'll deactivate it and take it away."

"But - "

"I know. We live and die by procedure. You can give me a cigarette while we wait."

"You should try the patches," Sherlock told him.

Lestrade gave him the finger before fishing in the pocket of Sherlock's overcoat and helping himself to a cigarette.

Sherlock edged closer to the front window of the house, which offered a view of the living room.

"That's far enough," said Lestrade. "You can see well enough from here."

The room was almost completely blackened and wisps of steam still rose from what was left of the three piece suite, which almost filled the small room. The boarded up window was open to the elements, the boarding having been destroyed in the fire and the reek of the burnt furniture was noxious enough to make the eyes water.

"See that pool burning there - that piece of carpet beneath what remains of the armchair..."

All for a quiet life, Lestrade allowed Sherlock to lecture him with his new-found knowledge, backed up by the prodigious amount of reading he must have done.

Twenty minutes later, the sound of sirens announced the arrival of the Authorised Fire Officer.

"You don't need to talk to him?" said Sherlock.

"Donovan's there." Lestrade bummed another cigarette from Sherlock. The wind had got up and was driving the stink of the house towards them. "It's hardly rivetting stuff, as you'll see. He'll check the gun's not loaded, or empty it, then sign a label to 'prove it safe'. After which SOCO can go back in to photograph and print the gun."

"Any idiot could do that."

While the Authorised Fire Officer gloved up, flirting with Sally Donovan while he did so, greasy black ash began to drift out of the house on the strengthening wind. Lestrade pulled Sherlock out of the way. 

"This position should stop us from getting a face full of ash from the corpse," he explained, which effectively silenced Sherlock's complaint.

They watched as the Authorised Fire Officer entered the living room. As he bent over the Deeds box, the gun in his hand, the door behind him blew open, smacking him on the arm.

"Down!" yelled Lestrade, launching himself at Sherlock to knock him out the way as the gun discharged. 

Lestrade felt a blaze of pain, then another as he smacked onto the broken concrete. He rather lost track of events after that.


End file.
